


blood & bruises & bad ideas

by AshToSilver



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Gay Sex, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7664539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshToSilver/pseuds/AshToSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is smart, but he isn’t known for making good decisions and so he unhooks a section of his armour over his forearm and pulls up the undersuit to allow the Joker to feed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood & bruises & bad ideas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashalili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashalili/gifts).



> Okay so in June I did a 100 follower giveaway for my old blog, one of the winners requested vampires and since I've done vampire!Bruce twice, you're all getting vampire!Joker this time around.
> 
> Also, for those not in the know - I changed my name. I now use the username [AshToSilver](http://ashtosilver.tumblr.com/) on here and Tumblr. I am still Alex, but I no longer have a day of the week in my name. You can all follow me on Tumblr for updates and things like that.

The thing about humans, about mortals, was that they never ceased to innovate.

Most vampires could live a thousand years easily. They figured out the dangers of their time and adapted, they got used to the way things were and after a while they stopped looking for new threats.

But humans, the mortal, fragile things of the world, saw this as a challenge.

As long as there were old threats to those who could bleed, there would always be new dangers to the ones who couldn’t. As long as humans lived in fear of the dark, there would be sparks and fire and electricity to illuminate it.

A hundred, two hundred years ago, the immortal dead had been concerned with stakes and holy water.

Between 1999 and 2001, the Batman pulls four killed vampires from factory acid vats and artificial chemical reservoirs.

He pulls out one who makes it too, but the less said about the Joker’s first and best destiny, the better.

* * *

Bruce is human and always has been. He bleeds and ages and wakes up the next morning to regrets and coffee.

The Joker does none of these things and if Bruce was a lesser man-

If Bruce was a lesser man, he would have died when an acid-scarred vampire on the verge of a second death had bitten through kelver-weaved fabric and drank with a viciousness that has left faint scars and paperwhite freckles from contamination on Bruce’s arm.

But Bruce had trained with vampires, werewolves, people who could kill with a thought and he still wakes up with the memory of blood on his hands and snow on his knees, so he knows enough about death to avoid it. Death follows him, closer than it does most, but he fights it and outruns it and regrets many things but not that he _lives_.

He regrets many things, but he doesn’t think he regrets pulling the Joker from an acidic death. Even when red runs down pale hands and more than a few throats are lost to a blood-frenzy that never seems to end. Even when people turn to him and ask why the bat hadn’t let the Joker die. The only squirming bodies purposefully dumped in places like that were monsters people were trying to get rid of - you can’t fault those people, for trying to kill the Joker before he even _was_ the Joker. You couldn’t fault humans, for trying to kill their vampire neighbours, they tell him.

_All lives are precious_ , Bruce says, because his father said it and his grandmother said it and his mother had not but she’d smiled when her husband had. All lives are precious, even if they aren’t _living_ lives. 

Even the Joker, a man turned barely two years before he’d lost everything to white, green and purple. Even the man who came before the clown, a man who had been human, a man who had walked down the wrong street one dark night, a man who had been forced to live with the consequences of that.

The Joker is many things, but he’s taken the worst death can offer and walked away from it.

If nothing else, Bruce can respect that. He’s been doing the same thing for a long, long time.

* * *

Where do they start? It’s in alleyways and on concrete, in the movements when fate hangs over a knife, waiting to make up its mind. They are born from pain, as the worst stories are and it binds them, claims them like a mother, a debt, a disease.

Where do they start? It’s almost three months after the factory and Wayne Enterprises is due to bulldoze the whole thing. Bruce still wakes with his arm tingling from the bite, the skin still fading from the desert swept tan he’d gotten while training and speckled with paperwhite marks where stray acid had hit. He gets used to rubbing the sore scars and numb burns like it’s a comfort and doesn’t think too much about the creature, the man, who had moved too erratically and barked laughter like it was poison. That man, the monster, with blood-red eyes and white skin and green hair and the energy of a firecracker.

He tries not to think about that night but the Joker thinks of _him_. It’s two months after Bruce’s line had pulled a squirming, screaming, bound vampire from acid and the Batman is flying high when something moving too fast for even him to see blindsides his next swing.

The grapple line goes limp and Bruce _falls_ , feeling a weight that’s terribly thin and skinny but still too heavy to throw off bearing him down. It only takes a second for a balcony to rush towards him and he reaches at the same time a purple-glad arm does the same.

Black gloves and white fingers snag simultaneously on metal that moans at the weight. When he blinks the shock from his eyes - he’s still so new to this, this life, this height, everything that’s happened - he sees a face grinning back at him. A narrow, pale face with blood red eyes, green hair and a smile wide enough to show some of the meanest looking fangs Bruce has ever seen.

“Hello _darling_ ,” comes the throaty purr and while Bruce has to admit, for all that strangest still wrapped around him, that voice lights up something deep and hot inside of him.

(Bruce has a problem with dangerous things and he _knows it_ but that doesn’t make it easier.)

“If you want to thank me for saving you, might I suggest telling me, instead of trying to repay the favour?” Bruce isn’t sure he can get out of the grip the vampire’s got on him, but he can at least pull them both up onto the balcony and out of the air.

“But how else was I supposed to make us even?” Nails that could have been claws cling to Bruce as the other man squirms in his lap like an excited puppy as they drop onto safety. “Not that I, ah, don’t appreciate owin’ something to such a _fine_ creature such as yourself, but- well, a man can only have _sooo_ many debts.”

The man pauses, white face flickering through something that could be discomfort, if he knew such a thing. “Or, you know, man, beast, bat, _things_ -”

“I get the idea,” Bruce says, almost surprised at his own gentleness, at the slowness of his own heart. It’s not the first time he’s been trapped like this, but his teachers had taught him to _escape_ , not linger under death’s teeth.

The look the man gives him - it says Bruce _doesn’t_ get it or maybe he does and the man just doesn’t want to believe it. The longer the man sits there, the more his body seems to shake and it breaks Bruce’s heart, that this person - one of _his_ people, _Gotham’s_ people - has suffered so much and can’t come back from it.

The white skin is harrowing to look at and this close it’s clear the damage it’s done; there are burn scars in some places and on his wrists there are marks where the metal chains had reacted badly to the chemicals. Bruce tries not to think about the ones he can’t _see_. The man’s so thin all his elbows and knees dig in as he tries to press himself too close. There’s that look about him too - he hasn’t fed recently, or not nearly well enough.

“I can help,” Bruce says, trying to be _kind_ even at the barely restrained violence he can sense beneath the surface. “I have sources, people, I can _help_.”

For a split second - for an eternal second that _matters_ in the grand scheme of things - the man considers it. His hands cling to Bruce’s armour and he _considers it_.

And then he laughs, laughs like the world’s played the cruelest joke and there is nothing in that voice but despair and terror and _pain_ , all hidden behind humour that might not even be real.

The man, the vampire, the victim runs. Bruce doesn’t follow and instead collects his grapple line, the playing cards that had fallen out of the man’s pocket and any trace of their presence.

He wishes he had followed later, because the man runs, he runs and he finds some body to feed on in his panic or mania and the next time they meet, Bruce is hitting back with everything he’s got and it’s barely enough.

It’s barely enough. Bruce wins, because he’s trained and this one is _not_ and vampire or otherwise, he committed a crime. The feeding victim survives, but nearly doesn’t. The building nearly makes it, but has to be torn down instead.

Arkham is the only place for creatures like this, crazy or sane, and so that’s where the man goes, after the trial. They call him the Joker, after his clown-like appearance and mocking laughter and bad jokes. They call it an insanity plea, but Gotham knows a lot about the things that go bump in the night and even if the rules don’t exist on paper, they still _exist_.

The Joker goes to Arkham and Bruce tries not to think about it.

* * *

The first time he visits the Joker at the institute, the clown looks like he’s enjoying himself and Bruce would honestly believe that, if he hadn’t seen the mess under the vampire’s skin before.

He’s been terrorizing the orderlies and frightening the other patients and he sits in an empty ward with only guards at the end of the hall. Bruce thinks if the Joker wasn’t mad before this, he will be by the time he gets out; this is mind-numbing boredom waiting to happen, no one to talk to, no one to hear and smell and watch like vampires love to do.

So Bruce brings playing cards because Joker had left them behind, brings the weekly news and spends a few minutes before dawn so the clown can cling to a living presence and realign a chaotic world around something that’s _real_.

And he shouldn’t have gone in, because he could see the hunger evident in the pale face and that was really monster handling one-oh-one. But he had and he’d spoken calmly and sure, like a mountain in a storm, until the Joker’s fingers wouldn’t let go and he’d begun to shake. And Bruce-

Bruce is smart, but he isn’t known for making good decisions and so he unhooks a section of his armour over his forearm and pulls up the undersuit to allow the Joker to feed.

It hurts, like it did the first time at the factory and if it wasn’t the end of the night with the whole day to get the blood built back up, he wouldn’t have done it. But a vampire can only live off cups of stale fluids for so long and the Joker _feeds_ like it solves all his problems.

Bruce has to pry him off a few minutes later, but it’s worth it to see that slender face light up with renewed energy and stored up reserves. The red on his lips and teeth should not be alluring at all and _isn’t_ really, but Joker kisses him all the same, wet tongue sending shivers down Bruce’s spine before he pulls away.

“Behave yourself,” he says as a parting farewell and the Joker laughs so long and loud it accompanies him all the way to the grounds.

* * *

When the Joker breaks out, it’s inevitable and Bruce chases him through half of Gotham. He finds the clown in a miserable side street, teeth buried in someone’s throat and the words come out of Bruce’s mouth but he doesn’t remember saying them.

The girl is breathing when Joker let's go and still mostly awake, so Bruce has nothing against luring the vampire away, luring him further back and the Joker _pounces_ the minute there is no one there to see them.

Bruce offers himself instead and calls it a sacrifice, but that’s not really what he means and they both know it. The Joker buries his teeth in Bruce’s arm, adding more bites to the scars collected around the acid freckles and if Bruce enjoys it, he says nothing, he _means_ to say nothing.

But something about the body moving in front of him is _divine_ and when the Joker finishes, goes for that kiss again, Bruce presses back. He accepts the open-mouth bite, blood and saliva mixing as they both drag tongues and Bruce’s harmless teeth across soft lips. His hands find narrow hips and he pulls the cold body closer, grinding them both together regardless of whether or not the Joker can respond.

There may not be blood to flow through a system anymore for this man who has survived death twice over, but his nerve endings are still fine and the Joker _keens_ , near howling into Bruce’s mouth while his fingers scramble for purchase. He looks ready to collapse, even freshly fed, and when Bruce pulls away, still hot and shaking but well aware this is not the place or time, the Joker tries to following.

It’s something new and something old, a bit like when they’d met the second time and the Joker had been considering what version of his life to follow; this is _wanted_ but it is not wanted for reasons that can exist in the clown’s tailored suit and personality. It is new and old and in that moment the strangest thing to happen to a man, a monster named only Joker.

Bruce takes him back to Arkham and tells him to stay there. Joker won’t listen and part of him knows that, but he tries all the same. The sweeping bow the clown gives him before he’s taken away says as much as the vampire’s face - this will happen again and it will be _fantastic_ when it does.

* * *

And it does _happen_.

The Joker explodes back into the world like a star going supernova on a schedule, digging his teeth and his claws into Gotham’s throat and shaking the whole city like he’s got something to prove. And Bruce tries his best, he really does, but somehow every time it happens, they keep winding back up here, in some dusty abandoned building or a half-constructed tower or a darkened rooftop. 

It’s a warm evening, so late it’s almost early and there’s too many teeth in both their kisses and bites and some of the punches they throw could crack bone, if either so desired. It’s messy and needy, and so terrible and so good all at once.

Bruce sometimes thinks - he sometimes _wishes_ \- that he could exist forever in one of these moments. When everything and nothing hurts and he doesn’t have to face the world. When the only thing that matters is the clown trying to vibrate out of his own skin beneath Bruce’s touch.

(Bruce wants many things but he’s used to not getting them, so it doesn’t hurt as much anymore.)

The Joker’s got quick and clever hands that have nothing to do with being immortal and Bruce has no real reason to stop him when white fingers begin to find all the cracks in his lower armour to peel away his second skin. The clown grins up at him, kneeling before the bat with a wicked look and fight-tousled hair as he pulls Bruce’s member free and licks along the swollen shaft.

It’s heavenly and every muscle in Bruce feels ready to melt as he digs his fingers into green hair. The Joker’s mouth is dry and almost too tight, the only wetness Bruce’s own spit from when they’d been kissing and blood from his earlier bite. The look on the clown’s face is almost predatory, almost content as Joker swallows down flesh and air he doesn’t need, hollowing his cheeks and taking Bruce so deep the vampire’s nose brushes against Bruce’s hip.

When Joker draws back, there’s precum and saliva coating the inside of his wide, open mouth, all his teeth on display as Bruce’s cock slides out and off Joker’s tongue. The air doesn’t seem to be coming into Bruce’s lungs and if it wasn’t for the wall behind him, Bruce is sure he’d be on the ground in a quivering heap.

The clown drags a wet lick up Bruce’s shaft and sucks a bruise onto the soft skin of Bruce’s hip. And then he bites again, snagging the skin of Bruce’s leg as they both lose clothes to this. He only feeds for a moment, but the feeling’s enough to send pavlovian shivers through Bruce and he palms his own cock, stroking himself with shaking hands until Joker’s mouth leaves his flesh and replaces his fingers.

Bruce comes with a cry in that lovely throat and watches Joker swallow it all down, saliva, cum and blood the only things he needs.

Bruce strokes a lazy hand over his lover’s nerve endings, half in a daze and feeling the best he has in years in this forgotten corner of the world, half on the ground. The Joker curls himself onto Bruce’s legs and chest, drinking in the heat the vigilante is giving off, the sound of his orgasm-fluttering heart and the smell of his sweat-soaked skin.

The sounds the Joker makes - at this attention, at this love, at this kind touch - are beyond anything Bruce has ever heard and he howls his own version of release when his mind just stutters over the feeling of Bruce’s hands. 

It’s the first time they do this.

It is not the last.

* * *

It is not _safe_ , it is not _good_ , it is every terrible idea Bruce has ever had.

And he arguably dresses up as a _bat_.

But the Joker worms his way back every time, like the flowing of the tide, the given movements of the moon, the sway of hips in a dance. They fight sometimes, but it ends more often than not in some warped version of sex that’s coated with blood and comes decorated with bruises.

Sometimes the clown doesn’t even bother seeking out other food. He hunts the bat across the city like a cat chasing a mouse and he’ll pounce from the shadows. They’ll fight and Bruce will shed his blood and then the Joker will get away, be set free so he can hunker down in a hideout and wait to play again the next night. They’ll spend weeks like that sometimes, Bruce with his excuses and Joker with his mischief that becomes less dangerous, less deadly the longer the practice.

It’s a bad idea, but they are demons locked in battle and now that the arena’s been set, they aren’t sure they can break free. Perhaps they are doomed to an eternal fight, until one or both or Gotham falls. Perhaps one day they’ll bleed out every ounce of pain dealt to them and there will be nothing left to be mad about.

Perhaps one day Bruce will figure out why he can press this pale body to sheets and streets and love it so much. He could ask the Joker, who surely knows, but where’s the fun in that?

* * *

Bruce has many hideouts - places he leaves evidences, repairs broken equipment and retreats if it’s one of _those_ nights when the city seems to be one big experiment in entropy. There are basements and insulated apartments and hidden rooms in buildings and the Joker knows most of them.

This is where they meet, when the sun’s come up and Bruce wants a moment, a day, a lifetime away from the world. The Joker’s got his favourites, the larger ones filled with things he can pick apart and play with while the bat’s away. An unbelievable amount of _stuff_ ends up here, things to keep the clown from self-destructing when he’s bored, spare blood for food and the occasional transfusion, clothes Bruce would never wear, books that end up with too many pencil marks and parts from the things they like to build.

Vampires have no need to sleep, but Bruce does and there is something _wonderful_ about mornings that end up on cold sheets next to a cold body, his overtaxed body welcoming the cooldown. And when he wakes- always too early, always without enough hours, as he has every night since he was a child- the Joker is always there to press bites without teeth to his skin and dig white knuckles into the knots of muscle that never leave him.

There is never enough time in this world without routine, but most mornings they can spare the energy to tangle themselves up like it’ll save them from being cut apart.

The bruises Bruce ends up with are like a language he can barely speak, art that’ll never be seen and he’s presses his fingers into them for days after the Joker goes to Arkham, remembering and reminding until the next time comes around.

* * *

The noises the Joker makes sometimes are a song in and of themselves. Those are the days they _do_ have time and Bruce can’t stand to do anything but touch and _take_ , take as much as the Joker can give without being unraveled entirely.

The sunlight dapples across pale skin and Bruce buries his fingers between the Joker’s legs, slick fingers easing the way and relaxing muscle as he drags his palm across the sensitive spots that’ll give _sensation_ , if not arousal.

The hisses and whimpers the clown tries to bury as Bruce presses a white knee down and out of the way are delicious, delightful. He leans forward and sucks what little air there is out of the vampire’s lungs, adding his own noises as nails are raked across his shoulders.

There are no words when they get like this - nothing they can say that’ll make this better because they are men of action, of reaction. They don’t _talk_ when they can speak just as well through movement.

Bruce takes wet fingers and reapplies from the bottle beside him, slicking up his own cock with quick strokes before he moves closer, his side and his other hand keeping the Joker’s legs apart long enough to press in.

That first shriek - it’s everything he dreams about, part pain and part _love_ and Bruce thrusts straight through it. There’s squirming as the Joker moves to adjust and it takes all of Bruce’s weight to keep him in place, abandoning the hold on the clown’s legs to brace himself against the bed and move as fast as he dares. He can’t hurt the vampire, not the same way he can get hurt, but there isn’t a part of their interactions that isn’t born of _violence_ and so the friction alone is enough to have the Joker withering in howling moans.

The bite comes a moment later - teeth latching onto his shoulder, nearly on his neck and Bruce drops lower to accommodate it, pressing his forehead to the pillow and slowing his pace to drag it all out. A possessive hand curls into his hair, gripping painfully as Joker feeds messily and quickly, teeth pulling sharply but it’s just the edge Bruce likes.

The pace is almost agonizing, still too rough in its thrusts and the pressure of limbs too close, the feeling of fingers digging in with too much strength. They pant with feverish abandon into each other’s mouths and shake at this touch that’s so foreign to two lonely people.

It’s rough and forceful, bloody and bruising and when Bruce finishes, he doesn’t even have the energy to pull himself back out. They just collapse in a heap on sweaty sheets and he dozes to the feeling of Joker lapping blood from Bruce’s bites and scratches.

* * *

Sometimes-

Sometimes, there isn’t even a fight.

It’s late or early or somewhere in between and the deadweight on Bruce’s chest is heavy, cold and weirdly comforting. He drags a hand through soft green hair and watches the sun rise like that’s what he’s out here to do.

The Joker is silent, like he gets sometimes when all the laughter is turned around inside him. When the sleepless nights dig their claws in and don’t let go. It’s raining, and maybe that’s it; water and liquid seems to work the clown into a frenzy every time.

“One of your little birds will replace you one day, won’t they.” The Joker doesn’t look at Bruce, not exactly, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything else either. “One day you’ll grow old and die and some kid’ll take your cape and cowl.”

“Probably,” says Bruce, who knows a few things about feeling dead and moving forward anyway. “Maybe Gotham won’t need the Batman, by the time I’m done.”

And the laugh- the laugh the Joker gives, there’s nothing in there but sorrow and hatred, nothing but the sad endings they’ll get to their own stories and Bruce pulls him close to press a kiss to a pale cheek.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers as softly as he can, trying not to overwhelm the Joker’s hyper senses, whispers “I won’t leave you in this world alone,” like that _fixes things_.

“You won’t have to,” mutters the immortal clown, like that explains everything and maybe it _does_.

* * *

They have good days and bad days and somewhere in between they learn to communicate in their own way, in aggression and compassion, in old moves and new ideas. It is not perfect, but that’s the only way to describe either of them, so it _works_.

The Joker is not someone accustomed to asking and if there was not some element of _trust_ in this relationship, they wouldn’t work at all. He takes and takes and takes because he has never been given a thing and wouldn’t know what to do with the idea if someone had the nerve.

He does not ask the bat for what he needs or wants because he has never been taught how to. He takes what he cannot do without and sometimes it’s tools, sometimes it’s information and sometimes it’s blood, even when Batsy has not offered it.

(He is, after all, a monster, in more than one way. It’s not his fault if Batsy _forgets._ )

And Batsy doesn’t remember. Batsy’s a _dear_ and sometimes this man, this mortal that trusts this monster, does dumb little things like fall asleep beside blood drinkers or leave his suit laying right in front of restless white hands and then-

He doesn’t do it on purpose. He really doesn’t. But sometimes he can’t stop the bloodlust and he can’t stop just _wrecking things_.

Guilt does not come naturally. Perhaps it was burned away when he took an acid trip into a vat, bound in chain and dumped in by some nosey assholes whose scents he’d _definitely remembered_.

(He doesn’t remember much, doesn’t remember anything really, but he remembers being pinned and wrapped and pushed over the edge while he screamed. He _remembers_ who did it - not their names, not their faces, but their scents had been engraved in his brain. Poor Batsy moans about lives lost but Joker thinks even his favourite mortal has made the connection between who has died and who haven’t. They were _delicious_ when he finally found them and he doesn’t regret even Batsy’s anger.)

He tries not to be so cruel and he _fails_ , mostly. Mostly.

“Batsy,” he whispers, pressing a cold forehead to the side of his lover’s head. “Bats-Bats- _Bats_.”

Batsy wakes with a start, sleepy and confused. He blinks up at Joker, only an inch or two from his nose. He must make the connection a moment later - the connection between Joker’s blood-stained mouth and the pain in his neck.

Batsy’s fingers come away red when he presses them to his throat. It’s not a _bad_ bite, but poor Batsy was sleeping, poor Batsy had not _offered_ and the itch to feed had been too much for Joker to resist.

He’d tried, but he’d _failed_.

Nobody’s ever apologized to this clown for anything and Batsy isn’t in the habit either - Joker knows the _words_ but he’s never said them and he opens his mouth to try and figure it out but realizes it’s probably not a good idea to bare his teeth so.

But _Batsy_ \- Bats, Batty-Batty-Brucie, he just blinks and makes a face and presses fingers to Joker’s jawline, drawing him in for a sleepy kiss.

“Just give me a shove and wake me up next time, will you?” Batsy’s jaw cracks as he pulls away and yawns. “Do you need more?”

Joker doesn’t know how to ask for anything.

But with Batsy, he doesn’t need to.

* * *

There are endless reasons to go and endless reasons to stay but they don’t matter, in the grand scheme of a life served in blood, bruises and bad ideas. They are a story with no end, they are the wrong decisions and the right intentions and a disagreement on whether or not those last two are mixed up. They are the concluding melody to an opening song and when the finale comes, they’ll be ready.

But it’s not today.

Today they are yin and yang, life and death, endless laughter and bottomless sorrow. Today, like many days past and many days going forward, they are together, if they are nothing else.

* * *

And it is not perfect and it never will be, this thing that they have and all the problems they bring along with it. But it is a comfort on cold, bloodless nights and the years fall away like leaves on a tree.

They lose people and gain people and Gotham moves forward, a behemoth of a mess that never learns but always remembers. They fight and love and Gotham  figures out how to make a place, for the broken people of the world who can’t ever get better. They lose and they win and in the end, Gotham doesn’t care but is there all the same.

Because perhaps it starts in alleyways and on concrete, perhaps it starts on a factory floor or a balcony. Perhaps it's a story that’s existed since fish crawled from the ocean and will continue until the stars implode. Perhaps it begins with a kiss and a bite and a few other things too.

But where it ends, nobody knows.

**Author's Note:**

> [Ultracolorfulsaladdetective](http://ultracolorfulsaladdetective.tumblr.com/) did fanart of Joker waking up Bruce! It is beautiful and you should all look at it; [“Batsy,” he whispers, pressing a cold forehead to the side of his lover’s head. “Bats-Bats-Bats.”](http://ultracolorfulsaladdetective.tumblr.com/post/150169264979/)


End file.
